Prologue: Silver Platter
When a Gamemaker declared something complete, you had done your job. When a Gamemaker told you to take pride in your work, your work was in rare form.
Or, perhaps you had met a rare form of Gamemaker.
This was the justification of games engineer Pyramus Crewe as he carved his initials in a rancid shack just below the disguised camera. He repeated it to himself once more as he clinked glasses during work hours with a pretty, young redhead, while last year's Quarter Quell played on the screen behind them.
They had met that day: the deaf-to-praise engineer and the Gamemaker who spoke it like a native language.
She was speechless for the whole first minute of their encounter. This suited Pyramus just fine, as the build was far from done, and he needed focus. He could hear her footfalls, though, as she whirled about the grimy abode like a new homeowner. No—no home-buyer would step anywhere near this place. She was a first-time artist who had just stepped inside her own painting.
"Were you an artist in a past life?" Were her first words to him. Her voice came from close to his ear. Pyramus pondered this new development and found he didn't mind.
"A set designer, actually," he responded. "And sometimes it does feel like a past life."
For the first time in their brief exchange, something besides excitement flashed across her face. Anticlimax? Pity? Theatre was a dying art in a utopia with its fingers constantly stretched toward the next, newest phenomenon. The nostalgic had been trying to stretch the genre for decades. But even the most avant-garde product of the stage didn't stand a chance against the hot new anti-gravity nightclub. Or a sim film that put the viewer right in the action.
It was the reason he left the stage in the end. He had exchanged his paints for spray-on dust and mold growth mixtures, and he had accepted with eagerness the task to build this Gamemaker's vision from the ground up. Not that he didn't make a decent living either way. But if what he produced never reached anyone, what was the point? The Hunger Games, in contrast, was a pandemic phenomenon. Here, he could at least tell himself reasonably that his work was worth something.
Could someone with his eye for detail aspire to become a Gamemaker himself one day? Perhaps. But Pyramus had always preferred the groundwork. Working with one's own hands was the only level on which perfection was attainable.
Perfection was a taste not yet familiar to him, but he would know it. He was sure of it. He had spent his whole life feeling so damn dissatisfied and just wanted it to end.
"Well either way, this is perfect," came a gushing reply. "Head Gamemaker Long said it couldn't be done, you know. She was nagging and nagging about how hard it is to make a shelter survivalist, but she'll eat her words when she sees what we've built. Tell you what—I 'm going to commission a break for you. Then I can buy you a drink, and the first thing we'll do is toast to Capitol mobility."
She had sensed his hesitation and laughed. She reminded him to trust her judgement and take some ownership of his work. Finally, she dropped a hint that the Pulse was currently airing reruns of the 100th, which was what caused him to relent in the end. The Pulse was his favorite sport bar. And he would never miss a Hunger Games showing, particularly last year's Quarter Quell.
"For this centennial Hunger Games, we will pay homage to this nation that the Capitol and her Districts have forged in tandem, each performing their allotted roles. Representatives from each District will therefore be allowed to submit one design choice to be incorporated into this year's Arena."
Initially, commentators puzzled. Critics blustered. Even Pyramus' friends on the build team were quick to note the lack of usual Capitol flair in the piecemealed designs. Where's the real Quell? Capitolites everywhere demanded. The one we've waited decades for.
Then came the systematic sabotage and slaughter of each tribute by their own District's design choice.
The attitude reversal to follow was the quickest and most dramatic Pyramus had ever seen.
And that was before the apocalyptic-proportioned finale.
Currently playing on the Pulse's bigscreen were the interviews. Good. Not long before the action picked up. Pyramus recognized the face of their victor—Zenalia Koehr—onstage. She had been a ruthless competitor, surprising for an outer district. Which one, he couldn't remember. It was getting harder to keep track of them all nowadays.
His companion had gone off to get drinks while he remained at their table. His eyes were on the screen. His mind was miles away, back in the one-room hut in an Arena-to-be.
The intrigue of his present company wasn't enough to distract from the restlessness. True—he had followed her advice. He had carved his initials hoping that it might help him take ownership as she suggested. But looking back, it felt almost dishonest, like signing a work of art that wasn't his. He'd this same problem with every single one of his set pieces back on the stage, but he was able to justify any shortcomings as being "good enough" for the demanding deadlines. This was different. He had the time. There was something deliberately lazy to this that caused him unease.
Back on screen, Zenalia stood to amiable applause. She was a lot thinner then than she was on her victory tour. It had been a sight to behold: the once sullen and starved tribute triumphant, healthier than she had been her whole life, quicker to smile.
His hostess had returned, two tall drinks in tow. He returned her smile. He tried to soak up the contentment that all these patrons exuded. He had won this Gamemaker's admiration. What more was there to earn? What was he trying to prove?
"To the uphill climb," the Gamemaker beamed. Pyramus obliged her. He thought back on his own journey from set-builder to game-builder; he found it did not satisfy.
Even as they drank deeply, he couldn't ignore the knowledge that there were milestones far worthier of a toast. That he had climbed an inch to Zenalia Koehr's mile.
Author's Note:
Welcome all, and happy Hunger Games!
Why am I here? Well, I've read a couple of these and I want to try my hand. I'm also in a very technical education program and haven't done much in the way of writing lately. So what better way to redevelop the skill than to adopt 24 characters, give them life, and then immediately rip it away by forcing them to kill each other in horrifyingly gruesome ways?
0:)
I wanted to lay a couple of ground rules for the submission process. First, I'll only accept tributes through PM. No exceptions, unfortunately.
Second, only one tribute per reader. If I'm coming up dry on tributes, I may bend this rule, but considering the rate at which SYOTs are manifesting themselves on this website, I think it should hold.
Finally, I want people, not plot devices. Really put some thought into your character. Who are they? Why are they the way they are? Has their story ever been told before? Is it interesting? Unique? All the ingredients for life should be there—I'm just the spark that wakes them up.
Coming back to the whole STEM education thing. It's a busy life. I can't guarantee speed 100% of the time. But what I do write I'll try to keep engaging. Hopefully. You can make that call based on my prologue.
Tribute Submission Form
Name:
Age:
Appearance:
District:
Where they live (home):
Family/Friends:
History:
Most/least favorite memory:
Personality:
Likes/Dislikes:
Greatest Ambition:
Greatest Fear:
Reaction to being reaped/Why they volunteered:
Token:
Training Strategy:
Arena Strategy:
Strengths:
Weaknesses:
Weapon of choice:
Alliance yes/no:
Why they should win:
*OPTIONAL*
Interview Angle:
Chariot Costume:
What they showed the Gamemakers:
Any other useful trivia:
